Into the Gathering Storm
by Kaelir of Lorien
Summary: Draco Malfoy has failed. Dumbledore is dead, but not by his hand. Now, after fleeing from Hogwarts with the triumphant Death Eaters, he must confront his own emotions - as well as his aunt Bellatrix and the Dark Lord himself.
1. The Darkness of Failure

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, obviously. No profit is intended, etc. That's J.K. Rowling's department.

WARNING: Half-Blood Prince spoilers, so if you have not yet read the book, be wary.

Takes place at the end of the Half-Blood Prince. And no pairings, by the way. I followed the details of the books as closely as possible, as opposed to the recent film. For example, Bellatrix did not participate in the raid at Hogwarts. Keep that in mind.

This story will be in two parts; this is, therefore, part I. Happy Reading!

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Shifting sullenly in the black sky, heavy clouds blocked any light from either stars or moon; their blanket stretched onward in every direction as though someone were determined that no lone ray should provide hope that night. A deep, ominous rumble sounded in the distance, but the noise was just different enough that one could not mistake it for thunder. It had a different feel – a darker sense of fate and failure, at least for some. This storm did not stem from natural causes, and though a casual and uninformed observer could not perhaps pinpoint why, he could easily sense the thick, hot air that lay too still across the country, the fear brought on by forces unknown. A shadow had fallen.

The manor house, too, rested in darkness. It was a large, imposing structure, surrounded by a high wall overgrown with ivy and vines clambering for a spot nearer to the sun. The house itself was elegant in design – ornate, but not so much that it came across as extravagant. It was obvious that its masters were well-off, and just as clear that they preferred to keep their own company. Any wanderer would think twice before approaching the tall, wrought-iron gates set in the center of the front wall; there was a black arrogance about them that tended to deter curious passers-by, even if they were brave enough in the first place to follow the long, hedge-lined drive leading up to the wall.

Somewhere near the end of the drive, where it met another lane, a cloaked figure appeared - materialized, seemingly out of thin air. It stood there for a few seconds, completely still, then abruptly began to stride towards the manor. The deep hood fell back with the quickening pace, revealing the young man's light blond hair and pale face, both shadowed by the cloudcover. He paused for a moment, as though unsure of himself, but suddenly broke into a flat-out run, his black cloak streaming behind him despite the oppressive stillness of the air.

As he dashed towards the house, Draco could feel a stitch in his side beginning to flare up painfully, but he merely clenched his teeth and ignored it. He kept his eyes looking downward, finding that watching the gravel speed below him was one of the few ways he could keep his emotions under control right now. Even that wasn't working very well; he felt his eyes becoming damp again, and he blinked furiously to clear them. Mostly, he concentrated on not thinking about anything. He was afraid of what might happen if he started pondering, remembering, _wondering_.

Without warning, he found himself at the end of the drive; he hadn't realized how fast he'd been running. Vaguely, it occurred to him that it might have been a lot easier to simply Apparate inside the house – he did live there, after all – but by the time he had reached the border of the Hogwarts grounds, he hadn't been thinking very clearly. He had simply turned on the spot, imagining the manor and with Snape's cry of "_Run, Draco_!" echoing behind him.

Averting his gaze without really knowing why, Draco raised his left hand, feeling his forearm burn for a moment as he hurried toward the twisted gates – _through_ the gates, for he passed inside as though they were no more than air – and onto the path.

He didn't know where the others were – the Dark Lord had often used Malfoy Manor as a meeting place for his followers, but it was possible that they had been ordered to report to him somewhere else. That was a relief, anyhow. He didn't want to have to deal with Snape or the Carrows, and especially Fenrir. Draco had felt something flinch horribly inside him when he realized the crazed werewolf had been allowed inside Hogwarts. Did no one think to tell him _anything_, even after what he had done?

The distance from the gates to the house seemed at least three times longer than it had ever been before, though he sprinted most of the way. All Draco wanted right now was to be alone – to go to his room and figure out what he was going to do now. He hadn't the faintest idea. Things had gone – very well, actually, all things considered. The Death Eaters' goals had been accomplished. They had found the only route into Hogwarts, and Albus Dumbledore was dead.

But that was because of Snape. He, Draco, had not been able –

_No. Don't think about that. Not yet. _Breathing raggedly, Draco stumbled up the front steps and waved the door open with his wand – he found, to his astonishment, that it was still clenched tightly in his hand, exactly as it had been when Snape had forced him back down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower. He must have been holding it like that the entire time.

Ignoring the footsteps approaching from another room, he crossed the hall in a few strides and pounded up the stairs. As he ran down the upstairs corridor, he heard a voice from below call, "Who – _Draco_?" but he paid no heed. Moments later he had darted into his room and slammed the door forcefully behind him. The last person he wanted to talk to was his mother.

Shaking, Draco sat down on the edge of his four-poster bed and lowered his head into his hands. The warm darkness of his eyelids was somehow comforting, but it didn't really help all that much. A few long moments passed as, again, he tried not to think, even though he knew he would have to face tonight's events sooner or later. He had thought he wanted to be alone, but now the silence seemed frigid and unfriendly, and instead of calming him it served only to set his nerves on edge again – still.

Was this what he had anticipated? He thought not. The Dark Lord had probably believed he would fail in his attempts to get the others inside the castle and kill Dumbledore – an opinion shared by many of the Death Eaters – but Draco had disagreed. He had been so proud to have been chosen for this mission; it was a task any Death Eater would have given much to perform. He had been determined to show them, and the Dark Lord, that he could do a far better job than his father, especially after the failure at the Ministry. It had, in short, been his and his family's chance for redemption. And he came so close… Voldemort's followers had breached Hogwarts, and he himself had cornered and disarmed Dumbledore… so where had it gone wrong? _When you couldn't do it_, said a nasty little voice in his head. _When you were too scared – too weak – to kill the old man._ So had Dumbledore been right? What was that he had said – "_Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe_". Angrily, Draco dug his nails into his forehead. He should have been the one to do it. Not Snape.

"Draco?" It was his mother again, her voice muffled in the hall outside. Of course – she must have known this was the night, and now she was bent on finding out what had occurred. In her anxiety, Narcissa didn't even bother to knock; she just pushed open the door. "Draco, what – what happened?"

God, why couldn't she leave him alone? Draco stood up very swiftly, feeling his pulse quicken again. Without looking at her, he crossed the room and kicked the door shut in her face. "Leave me _alone, _Mother."

Narcissa said something, her tone irritated, but he didn't care enough to pay attention to the individual words. She probably would have gone on further if a distraction hadn't arrived, in the form of the front door opening and closing several times in quick succession. Draco could hear the low murmurs of many people downstairs. So they were coming here, after all. A second later, his mother's steps receded away from his room, and he returned to his seat on the bed. He only hoped that no one would feel the need for him to join in the celebration – he really wasn't in the mood.

Slowly, trying to get a grip on himself, he rose and looked at his reflection in the mirror above the bureau. The image surprised him slightly – he looked a lot worse than he had realized. His light hair, still damp with sweat, was in thorough disarray and in some spots threatened to hang over his eyes. The latter were red-rimmed, with dark shadows underneath. Overall, he still looked rather ill.

He was still wearing his cloak, too. His thoughts already turning elsewhere, Draco undid the offending garment and let it fall carelessly into a heap on the floor. Almost subconsciously, his hand went to his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, he could feel the scars – the last remnants of Potter's spell. He had refused Madame Pomfrey's increasingly irate attempts to treat the wounds with dittany once Snape had brought him to the hospital wing. He had said he preferred the injuries to heal on their own, but that had not been the real reason. Draco kept the scars to remind him what a moment of weakness could cost him now. It was the sort of gesture that his aunt Bellatrix would appreciate.

After pacing restlessly around his room for nearly ten minutes, Draco finally forced himself to lie down, to try to think calmly. It wasn't easy – he was feeling far from rational. As it had several times before, it was beginning to occur to him that he had involved himself in something that he had drastically underestimated. He had broken down a few times that past year, the last being when Potter had found him in the bathroom crying. What had he expected – honor and glory? Yes, he realized, that was it. However, he had failed to anticipate the realities – the pain, the anxiety, the sense of being sick with fear at the thought of what would happen to him and his parents if he should fail. He hadn't expected it to be like _this. _And now, in the solitude of his room, he was forced to look the truth in the face –

He was afraid.

And what was worse, he knew he couldn't go back. He still felt a need to prove himself, to show them all that he wasn't just a child, but now that urge was coupled with a strange reluctance. He felt helpless, more helpless than he had ever done before. At least during the school year he knew what he had to accomplish. There had been hope. Now… now he was in over his head, and he could do nothing.

As though a wireless had just been tuned, Draco suddenly heard distinct voices from downstairs, belonging to his mother and –

_Damn, _he thought furiously. He had been wrong when he believed Narcissa was the last person he wanted to talk to at the moment. In fact, he would prefer her conversation ten times over to that of Bellatrix. Arrogant, mocking, and fanatically devoted to the Dark Lord, his aunt would not react well upon hearing that her own nephew, who carried the pureblood line of both the Malfoys and the Blacks, had ultimately failed to carry out their master's wishes. She would probably scream at him – profanely and at length.

"He wouldn't talk to me – did he really – is Dumbledore –?" That was his mother again. He could hear her clearly; she must be on the stairs or just down the hall.

It was Bellatrix who replied. "So Snape says." She sounded as though she wanted to doubt the facts, but knew she could not, and it made her angry. Narcissa said something very softly, so that Draco could not make out the words, but her sister let out a derisive laugh. "_You're just glad it's over?_ Cissy, you should know by now. For all your hopes and Unbreakable Vows, Draco still failed. He did not complete the task set forth by the Dark Lord himself."

"But we got the result we wanted, didn't we?" Narcissa pressed on, sounding desperate. "He's dead – why does it matter who did it?" Their voices were drawing nearer now. "And surely – surely he did not expect Draco to – to succeed. Now that it's done –"

"You think he can simply walk away?" Bellatrix interrupted, her tone scornful. Then her voice suddenly dropped and became deadly serious. "_Listen_ to me, Cissy – Draco is a Death Eater. He is one of us, and he must face the consequences that any of us would." Her sister let out a small noise of protest, but Bellatrix cut her off impatiently. "You cannot put yourself out for him any longer. If you try to come between him and his duty, both of you will be hurt. He must prove himself – alone and without protection."

"He's only sixteen, Bella!"

"He's nearly of age!" the other contradicted her sharply.

This time, Narcissa did not reply, probably realizing the futility of arguing with her sister when she was in this frame of mind. Draco suddenly realized that both women were just outside his door.

"It's futile to discuss this any further," Bella continued, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Stay here, Cissy."

His mother was not pleased. "He's _my_ son!"

"And that is exactly why you're staying outside," said Bellatrix triumphantly. "You would only try to protect him, and you can't do that anymore." Draco saw the doorknob move slightly.

"Protect him," Narcissa repeated apprehensively. "Bella – protect him from what?"

She didn't answer.

"_Bella!_"

Again ignoring her sister, Bellatrix opened the door. Draco was on his feet before his aunt could enter the room; as she slipped inside, he caught a glimpse of his mother's face, white and anxious, before Bella shut the door behind her with a slam. Uneasily, Draco saw that her wand was in her hand, and, judging from the expression on her face, she was ready to use it.

"What do you want?" he demanded, not caring if his words came across as rude. Generally, he tolerated his aunt, knowing that she was one of the Dark Lord's closest followers as well as an extraordinarily powerful witch, but he didn't want to deal with her right now.

"I came to find out," Bellatrix answered, her tone deceptively quiet as she moved slowly in his direction, "why, _why_ it is that a pureblood wizard, a descendant of the house of Black, my own nephew – why is it that he_ failed to carry out the Dark Lord's wishes?_" And suddenly she was right in front of him, no longer calm, her eyes wide and filled with wrath.

"I taught you myself, Draco – how to close your mind – I made you strong." There was a frightening intensity to her words, as though they were building up to some pronouncement of doom. Her wand came up – Draco backed away, trying not to look at her, his heart pounding. "And I might have understood," she went on, fury boiling just beneath the surface, "if you had been unsuccessful altogether. _But you weren't!_"

Abruptly, Draco felt his back hit the wall. But Bella's wand kept coming; he winced as its tip stabbed painfully into his neck. His own wand was held tightly by his side, but he dared not use it, especially when his aunt was in one of her wild, unpredictable moods.

"You had him cornered – disarmed, helpless! There was no one – nothing – to prevent you from killing him! One little spell, Draco. And still you did not do as you were ordered! How _dare_ you defy the Dark Lord? I'm ashamed to call you one of my own blood! You were supposed to kill Dumbledore – _why_ _didn't you do it?_" The phrases were shot at him with the cold-blooded accuracy of a knife in the back.

"I couldn't – it – he's dead, all right?" Draco stammered, frustrated, trying to hastily throw up defenses. "And none of it would have worked if I hadn't found a way to get them into the school!"

"All the more reason why you should have completed the task!" Bellatrix spat. She was breathing quickly. "I never would have dreamed a nephew of mine would be so weak!"

Draco jerked his head to the side, not meeting her gaze. "I'm not weak," he muttered coldly.

She was silent for a long time – so quiet that he couldn't be sure she was even breathing. Still, he did not speak; he was afraid that if he said something, he might provoke another, perhaps more painful, outburst. Then –

"Prove it," Bellatrix whispered. A pause – the tip of her wand slid from his neck to his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes. "The Dark Lord wishes… to speak with you."

And it was only then that he realized how silent the house had become; the low murmurs of the Death Eaters downstairs had fallen still, as if they had all suddenly Disapparated. Draco looked quickly back at Bellatrix. _Don't make me go down there_, he wanted to say. _Not now. Not when he's here._ But he couldn't plead with her – not only would it prove he _was_ weak, it would also have no effect whatsoever in changing her mind.

It suddenly occurred to him what he was really up against this time. He had been so confused ever since he had left the castle that he had not had time to consider what the consequences of failure would be, even though his work had allowed Fenrir and the others to enter Hogwarts. He had been _expected_ to fail – that much was clear – but did that honestly matter to Voldemort? The Dark Lord tended to have a more merciless outlook – if something happened, it was someone's responsibility, regardless of their motives or attempts to rectify a situation. Here, Draco was the one at fault, and he doubted that his master would consider high potential for failure an adequate excuse for avoiding the repercussions.

Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded. Bella considered him carefully for a moment before a wicked little smile curved her lips and she delicately lowered her wand.

"Very good, Draco," she told him, satisfied in a way that made him very uneasy. "Now come. We would not want to keep the Dark Lord waiting…"

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I really appreciate any comments/suggestions/constructive criticism you readers may have! Thank you for reading! Part II will be coming.


	2. Far Too Late

Here is part II! Happy reading, and I really appreciate your comments and critiques!

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With numb fingers, Draco slid his own wand through his belt, knowing it would be a foolish mistake to appear as though he would like to attack while in Voldemort's presence. He would have to face whatever was coming unarmed, just like – he couldn't prevent the thought – just like Dumbledore.

They left the room, his aunt leading the way with her wand twirling in her fingers and he following slowly. It felt as though his insides had twisted into a very large, apprehensive knot. Breathing shakily, he trailed Bellatrix along the hall and down the stairs, where they found the front room suspiciously empty. Draco swallowed hard; they must be waiting. For him.

Bella led him where he had expected – downstairs, to the large, windowless room he had only been allowed into a few times. Previously, his father had kept many dark items of questionable use and origin here, but as Ministry raids became more frequent, Lucius had moved these rare possessions to a safer location – one he had not confided to his son. Draco doubted he had told his wife, either, but Narcissa probably knew all the same; she had ways of finding out these things. At the moment, the chamber was plunged in darkness, except for a few candles in brackets along the walls that illuminated the high wood paneling and cold grey stone. It was here that the Death Eaters were gathered; they formed a rough circle along the room's perimeter, with a large gap at the far end. Standing there, though just outside the ring, was a cloaked and hooded figure taller than the rest. Its back was to the others.

The circle parted to allow the two newcomers to enter. As they walked forward, Draco could feel all eyes watching him, judging his every move. For a split second, he glanced up and caught Snape's gaze ahead of him, but that face was so cold and unreadable that he quickly looked down again. A moment later, Bellatrix's hand pressed on his shoulder, warning him to stop. She herself moved on, taking her place at one end of the broken ring – closest to her master. Silence fell.

Tension permeated the air so heavily as the seconds dragged into minutes that Draco felt he would not be able to stand the soundless atmosphere much longer. Briefly, he risked looking up from the floor, this time turning his head slightly so that he could see his mother. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her and her face, though in shadow, appeared very white. This was hurting her far more than she ever let him know.

"Draco." The word came out in a cold, sibilant hiss, and if he hadn't known better he could not have discerned from which figure it originated. He shuddered involuntarily and fixed his gaze even more firmly on the floor. The minutes seemed to drag on interminably.

With nerve-wracking deliberation, the robed figure that was Lord Voldemort turned carefully to face his followers, all of whom were in their places, save one. The cat-like eyes gleamed red for a moment as they surveyed the assembled Death Eaters. There was a challenge in that stare, daring anyone speak, but none did; they avoided his gaze as though it were like that of a basilisk. One pale, long-fingered hand reached up and drew back the deep hood.

"You all, I think, know why we are gathered here," the Dark Lord began softly. After that one name, he had ignored Draco as completely as if there was not a trembling young man standing directly before him. "Indeed, we have several reasons, though they are… connected."

The Death Eaters remained silent; they had learned, through harsh experience, when it became wise to not answer.

"We are here," Voldemort continued, "because another man is not. Yes, because Albus Dumbledore, who some have named as the greatest wizard in the world" – here the inflection of his words became accusing, and the others stirred uneasily – "because Dumbledore… is dead."

No murmurs of surprise followed this pronouncement – the Death Eaters were clearly all aware of the fact – and Voldemort seemed to expect none. He continued after a pointed pause. "He is dead, furthermore, on my orders – this you should also know. But we must not forget to give credit where it is due, my friends, must we?" Draco winced slightly, but still the Dark Lord was dismissing his presence; he had turned now to the man on his left – Snape. "Lord Voldemort is pleased with you, Severus," the former said, and though his voice was no more than a breath, everyone heard it clearly. Snape acknowledged the compliment with only the barest of nods, his black eyes glittering strangely in the half-light cast by the flickering candles. For the smallest fraction of a second, Draco thought he noticed Snape glance towards him, but it was such a small change that he could easily have imagined it. He probably had, in fact. The building suspense was making him very nervous.

Voldemort began speaking again, tone clear and carrying to ensure that each of the Death Eaters would understand every word. "Severus has done us all a great favor, my friends. He has rid us quite neatly of the Order of the Phoenix's most valued member. And I would have to say that this world is far better off without that Muggle-loving old fool," he added reflectively. Low mutters of agreement came from around the circle, joined by several unmistakable snickers at the headmaster's fate. Fenrir's face bore a particularly ugly leer.

"And yet."

Voldemort's voice caused them all to fall completely silent; the icy inhumanity of that tone sent chills down Draco's spine.

"And yet," the Dark Lord pressed on, clearly aware that he had captured the undivided attention of every one of his followers, "we must address the question of _why_ Severus found it necessary to kill Dumbledore. He performed his service admirably, to be sure, but there is another point to consider. Many of you know this. You see, my faithful Death Eaters – it wasn't his job. _That_ task… was given to another."

And, for the first time since the gathering had commenced, Voldemort looked Draco full in the face, his eyes flashing scarlet.

"Tell me, Draco – explain to us all why you did not perform the task that I asked of you last summer. It cannot be for lack of time; you did, after all, have nearly the entire school year open to you. Initiative, perhaps? No, Bella tells me you were quite eager to prove yourself. What, then? I am forced to speculate, Draco, and the possibilities that arise are… disturbing. Could it be that you did not _wish_ to destroy Albus Dumbledore? Could it be that you, like so many others, would rather follow his teachings than mine?"

Draco could not have forced out an answer even if he had wanted to. His mind was numb, all his thoughts tainted with dread. Though Voldemort's tone was quiet, even friendly, he was not deceived – he was walking a dangerous line.

The Dark Lord began pacing a slow, measured circle between Draco and the Death Eaters, his robes billowing slightly behind him. "I am disappointed in you, Draco. From what Severus tells me – and others have confirmed this – you could have easily killed the man. He was disarmed, was he not? Yes – and weak. But for some unfathomable reason you did not use the appropriate curse. I must wonder… why. You know I tolerate nothing but absolute loyalty from my Death Eaters."

As the sentence trailed off into silence, Voldemort stopped directly in front of Draco, who quickly averted his gaze. He knew what was about to happen.

"Look at me."

Trying to quell a feeling of rising terror, Draco slowly raised his head and met the eyes of his master. _Don't think_, he reminded himself desperately as he found himself unable to look away again. It was a very dangerous decision; Voldemort's methods were brutal, and if he believed that Draco was trying to hide something….

With forced calm, he kept his mind blank, locking away all thought. What the Dark Lord might find there even he didn't know – his feelings weren't properly sorted out yet – but he was certain that utter devotion wasn't among the choices. He could feel Voldemort stabbing, probing, but to his surprise his defenses held –

"_Crucio!_"

Agony engulfed his entire body; every inch of him seemed to be burning with an exquisitely painful fire. He screamed, wanting only to black out, to make the pain stop, but still a part of him knew that Voldemort wouldn't let that happen –

It was over as quickly as it had begun. Draco lay curled on the hard stone floor, breathing raggedly and sobbing as Voldemort looked down from above. His face was cold and impassive.

"An unwise decision on your part, Draco, to try and conceal your thoughts," he said in a fatal whisper. "Lord Voldemort is not always forgiving… and such _defiance_, I must add, is unacceptable… But perhaps these lessons will have more of an impression if they come from family." He looked around. "Bella?"

_Oh, God_, Draco thought despairingly. _Not her._ Shaking violently, he attempted to lever himself up on one arm, but the effort failed and he abruptly fell back. His mouth had gone dry. Bellatrix turned the Cruciatus Curse into an art, a vindictive pleasure of which every moment was to be savored. And what was more, she knew her nephew's limits. She would push him just far enough so that he would think he could endure it no longer, but would not let him fall unconscious or become permanently injured. Draco would have happily begged for mercy if he thought it would make any difference – which it wouldn't.

Voldemort had stepped back; now Bellatrix was standing over him, her wand outstretched and the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of her lips. Draco realized his aunt was going to enjoy this. _She's punishing me for failing_, he thought as he looked up at her. _For not redeeming our family like I was supposed to – like I should have done._ It occurred to him that the only reason she had not tortured him herself upstairs was because of the Dark Lord's orders. The punishment had been saved for the moment when it could be a lesson to all the Death Eaters. Voldemort was guaranteeing that each one of them knew he would not show lenience with any – not even a teenage boy who had not yet come of age.

Bella's lips parted, her eyes gleaming. "_Crucio!" _she cried, the word sounding like the sharp sting of a whip.

Pain again – searing, unbearable pain. As though from a distance, Draco could hear himself screaming for it to stop, his body writhing and convulsing on the floor under his aunt's expertly-cast curse. And in a tiny corner of his mind that was still functioning logically, a strange thought came across: If this was what it was like to serve under Lord Voldemort, he didn't want to do it anymore. But as he suddenly thought this, the agony intensified tenfold, and he realized that even as she was torturing him Bellatrix must have been peering inside his mind, taking advantage of his weakness, and she had not liked what she found there.

She might have overdone the spell in her anger; by the time she lifted it, Draco's vision was becoming dark and blurred. Gasping for breath, his face smudged with tears, he tried to bring his eyes back into focus. Despite the effects of the curse, part of him was filled with a growing fury at the humiliation Voldemort was forcing him to undergo. He had tried – they had no_ idea_ how hard he had tried – and still he faced only punishment. How many more hours of despair would it take?

"Again, my lord?" Bella asked quickly, with a slightly inhuman note of eagerness. Voldemort must have nodded or given some other indication of his agreement, for she raised her wand. "_Cruc_–"

"Wait."

In the stillness that followed the interruption, it seemed as though everyone in the room had drawn in their breath sharply at the same time. All eyes moved from Bella and Draco to the one who had dared to countermand the Dark Lord's direct will.

"I feel obliged to remind you, my lord," Snape went on before someone could stop him, "that Draco's efforts were key in the success we can now appreciate. He did find a most direct route into the school. Though he failed to do as he was told near the end" – here Snape looked pointedly at Draco – "I don't believe we can dismiss his contributions so lightly. However… it is, as always, your decision."

As he fell silent, Voldemort considered both Snape and Draco very carefully. His expression was unfathomable, but he had seemed to listen to the other's words with interest, at the very least. Bellatrix, on the other hand, looked furious that someone had dared to intervene in the proceedings. She hadn't finished with her nephew.

And suddenly, Voldemort laughed – high, cold, but undoubtedly amused. "Excellent, Severus – well-played. You are doing this for Narcissa, I presume?" Snape inclined his head – it would have gone beyond foolishness to deny the fact – but he still appeared wary. "Very well, my friend. I will confess that Draco is of more use to me alive than dead. My apologies, Bella," he added, turning to her with a knowing and slightly mocking air. "You will have to find another toy to play with."

She nodded tersely, her mouth set, clearly not trusting herself to speak.

"You may rise, Draco," the Dark Lord said, once again cool and detached. "But let this serve as a warning to you in the future. And remember – Lord Voldemort does not make idle threats."

Unsteadily, Draco got to his feet as the other Death Eaters, recognizing dismissal, began filing out. He followed as quickly as he could, slipping in between Amycus Carrow and Rowle. Bellatrix trailed at the end; he could feel her eyes boring into him from behind.

Most of the others were leaving. Draco himself had gotten halfway down the upstairs hall when he heard steps behind him. Whirling around, he caught a brief glimpse of Snape before he was pinned against the wall with the man's hands pressing painfully against his shoulders.

"_What?_" he demanded hotly, trying and failing to twist away.

"That," Snape replied, his tone low and dangerous, "is exactly what I want to know – more specifically, what possessed you to make such a foolish decision? That was without a doubt the worst type of idiocy I have seen from you, Draco, including your ill-organized attempts to assassinate the headmaster and eventual failure to do so."

"_Former_ headmaster," Draco spat back. "He's not –"

"That is not the point!" Snape hissed, clearly frustrated. "Do you have any idea how close to death you brought yourself?"

"She wasn't going to –"

"Bellatrix would have tortured you indefinitely if the Dark Lord so ordered, even until death! Far better wizards than you have not dared to conceal their thoughts from him, and yet you tried! Are you still so naïve?"

"No! I just –"

"Listen to me, Draco." Snape lowered his voice. "I interceded for your mother's sake, because I promised her at the end of the summer that I would look out for you. But it is over now. The Unbreakable Vow no longer applies – it became void the minute I stepped in where you failed." In a tone of deadly seriousness, he went on, "I will not intervene again. I took a large risk in doing so today, and I am not stupid enough to repeat it. The next time this happens, you alone will face the consequences."

It was beginning to sink in now; as Snape finally released him, Draco was aware of quite an uncomfortable sensation, as though his insides had been hollowed out. Snape had no right to criticize him like that after everything that had happened, but still – he hadn't realized….

Snape was still looking at him. "Do you understand what I am telling you?"

"Yes. Fine." Draco pushed past his teacher. "Now just shut up and leave me alone."

Without waiting for any forthcoming reply, he left Snape standing there and quickly returned to his room. The door he locked behind him, praying that it would keep everyone else out. There was only one window here, though it was large and done in the elegant style of the rest of the manor. Draco walked over to it, standing with his arms folded and looking out at the swirling blackness of the sky. After a moment, he reached out and flung the window open, letting in a torrent of icy air. He didn't mind; the cold wind was numbing, blowing his hair back from his face and calming him somewhat – helping him to forget.

The past year had changed Draco more than he had realized – or was willing to admit. He was no longer a proud, privileged boy with so little experience in the real world. Initiation as a Death Eater had turned him forever from that path, instead forcing him along a darker road of which he could not see the end. He was not yet certain if he was stronger because of it; this year had shown, for the first time, that he did have many weaknesses, and he was not prepared for this kind of life. Pride had given way to desperation, and desperation to a near loss of the innocence he had not even known he possessed.

Somewhere many miles away, a phoenix was calling its lament to the world as it circled around a castle – a castle filled with sad and confused people who still could not believe that darkness could fall so suddenly.

A once-proud woman, fair and cold, sat in a high-backed chair, her hands folded in her lap as she waited for comfort that would never come.

Her sister raised her face to the ominous sky, letting the wind caress her cloak with its cool fingers, and vowed her redemption and vengeance.

Still expressionless, a dark-haired, sallow-faced man contemplated the twists and turns of fate, preparing himself for the final stretch.

And as the last notes of the phoenix-song died, a pale boy stonily held back tears as he looked out at the gathering storm and fought the hard, uncaring realization that the choice had been decided, and there was no turning back.

_End._

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